The Chronicles of Random Writing Prompts

When you REALLY need some Coal:

It was cold. So cold.

The young boy exhaled and watched his breath form a tiny cloud of droplets in front of him. The threadbare blanket was not nearly enough to keep the cold away, crusted with ice and covering him like a freezing suit of armor, weighing him down as he put his hands just a little bit closer to the thin stream of smoke coming from the fireplace. His eyes were burning from the dark cloud of ashes that always coated his nose and stung his eyes no matter how much snow he rubbed onto his face.

At least you still have your nose, he thought bitterly, stealing a glance at the unmoving body of Old Man Madison out in the streets. For now, anyways.

Winter was supposed to be a beautiful time, with the beautiful ice fairies and snow and the feast of the winter solstice that was every child's wildest dream made reality, with a fire and candied apples and roast pigs dripping with fat and spices. But to Bug, it seems like hell had frozen over and yet retained its hellish-ness perfectly. 

This winter was the harshest of all, freezing all the crops and leaving near nothing for harvest. The flowers and lemongrass that grew in the crevices between the cobblestones became little more than shriveled-up leaves that disintegrated the moment they were touched by anything other than the tiny white snowflakes that fell from the sky without end, bearing beautiful patterns for anyone warm and alive enough to observe it. 

The smoke became just a bit thinner.

The massive oak in the middle of the town, a tree that had stood proudly for hundreds and hundreds of years, according to Old Man Madison's stories that the children always gathered round to listen, was cruelly hacked down the middle by some man's great axe, desperate for timber. What was left of its old grandness- the bark hollowed out for the last tiny shreds of wood, the stump that was wide as a chariot wheel, the great roots spreading across the entire plaza- were nearly obscured from the layers of snow that had gathered on it.

Bug's mother had, before the men took her, told him that his name wasn't Bug, but Robert. A handsome name, she would say. A handsome name for a handsome little boy.

But the men in the blue clothing never listened. They would kick her onto the ground, spit on her, tear her clothes, drag her into their warm carriages and take her away from him, their great metal wheels leaving two straight lines leading into the forest. When he ran after the carriage, demanding answers and screaming and crying that they bring his mother back, they took a whip to his back and threw him into the snow. They called him Bug, prancing around his bleeding body and pretending to squash him under their fancy leather boots, kicking him in the stomach and groin until he curled into a ball, just like a bug as they said he would, the little worthless coward who couldn't take a blow-

The front door flew open with a mighty bang against the back wall. Snow poured in from the open doorway, collecting into piles on the tiny cupboard that was supposed to be for their food.

The smoke grew thinner still.

His father emerged from the flurry of white powder, his heavy boots thundering on the floor as he walked in and hung his bag on the hook.

"Hey, kid."

Silence.

"Ya keep the fire going?"

Silence.

"Speak when you're spoken to, kid." He grabbed the bag from the pegs barely held in place by chunks of ice frozen into the muddy walls, careful as to not dislodge them. He turned the bag upside down, emptying what damp, little twigs he could find. 

The smoke became just a bit thicker. He could even swear he saw a couple of sparks in there.

Bug stood up and stuck out his arm.

His father made no move to remove his coat.

"Coat," he muttered.

His father grunted. "No use. Looked the whole town, ya won't find a leaf."

"Coat."

His father sighed. It was a dry sort of sigh, the kind that sent shivers down your spine, like a dull knife scraping against the whetstone. An empty sigh from an empty man.

"Fine." The huge coat was thrown over his head. It gave the musty smell of grime and mothballs. He shrugged himself into the huge thing, letting it hang in the familiar place around his skinny ankles as he shouldered the bag and threw open the flimsy door. 

Tiny snowflakes attacked every bit of exposed skin of his like a swarm of angry wasps, stinging his face with a fury that made his eyes squint and his nose wrinkle, and his ears scream in agony. The snow went all the way up to his knees, so thick that he could barely see Old Man Madison's body lying on the side of the road.

Back when the days were just a bit warmer, one of the women would give him just a little something to eat, and he'd repay her with stories so wonderful and lively that he had lived through before, and all the children who wanted to listen could gather around for another of his fabulous tales. He had so many stories that they never seem to repeat, and when they did, the children would laugh that they've heard it before, and Old Man Madison would join in and tell the story of another man instead, munching happily on the chunk of bread and brushing off any crumbs that were caught on his crooked nose and in his great, white beard.

The icy winds on his face tore him away from the happy memories. His feet felt like blocks of snow that the children used to make and built tiny castles with before the cold settled in. They were sent scuttling back into their homes and their fires, bright with flames and warmth as their tables were laden with delicacies from the harvest and celebrated the winter solstice with their family, well and whole, their fathers and mothers' arms wrapped around them as they sat in front of their fire. Bug could barely recall the memories, the time when his family had been like that, so comforting and whole and- 

Stop, a soft voice in his head spoke, their voice warm and welcoming. You cannot afford to think about that anymore.

But I want to, he replied. Old Man Madison had said not to cry in the snowstorm, or his tears would freeze right up into his eyeballs. I want to have my mother back. I want to have my father back. My father, not this pathetic whelp of a man who can scarcely get himself to work in the morning and stop his tears in the night.

Your father mourned my loss as much as you did, Robert, the voice breathed. Be easier on him. Be easier on yourself. Go back to the house and save yourself from the winter.

No, he thought. I must find wood. I will find wood.

Then you will freeze to death, she said. Please, Robert. Go back.

I don't want to go back. I want to bring wood back. I want to bring my father and mother back, my family back, the happiness back. Tears filled his eyes, burning hot against his cheeks as they tumbled down his face and slipped into the blanket of snow. His feet refused to take another step. His body felt hot, burning inside his father's jacket like a fireplace had been lit until it became so unbearable that he threw off his coat, falling back into the soft snow. It was warm yet cool at the same time, covering him like the softest down blanket from a king's bed.

Please, put the coat back on and head home, cried the voice in his head. The voice was getting more and more familiar, like god's angels calling him to heaven. You will die, Robert.

Let me come to you, he thought as he saw the fluttering snowflakes for the first time, the starry night so bright and shining in the distance. Let me come home.